


short, sometimes sweet

by Yellow



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, a lot of nonsense, prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2018-11-29 17:17:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 12,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11445441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yellow/pseuds/Yellow
Summary: recent chapters:15. Ephrim gains a follower. (Ephrim/Hadrian, explicit)16. Tender and Signet try to decompress in the body of Belgard. (It doesn't work). (explicit)17. Malegywn reappears. Ephrim has to decide what to make of him.





	1. gmail 101

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Samot helps Samothes organize his email.  
> 2\. Orth talks to his dad about piloting the Kingdom Come.  
> 3\. Alyosha & Hadrian, talking things out.  
> 4\. Throndir & Alyosha, having a much needed discussion. (explicit)  
> 5\. Echo wants Grand to shut up for one whole minute. Gig helps. (ot3, mature)  
> 6\. Samothes is freed from the sword, and gets to see Samot, after all this time.  
> 7\. Even gets the first major injury of their expedition. Echo blames themself. (ot4)  
> 8\. Arrell writes many letters he doesn't send.  
> 9\. Samot is happy to see his husband when he comes home. (explicit)  
> 10\. AU where Samot has stuff set up to trigger when he dies so they (try to) kill him instead.  
> 11\. Maelgywn feels the pressure of his role. Castille offers a friendly ear.  
> 12\. Arrell is morbidly wounded. Alyosha tries to reassure him.  
> 13\. Samot kills Samothes, over and over. They're both into it. (explicit).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the best thing i've ever written

“I can't believe this,” Samot says, scrolling through Gmail. He levels a look at Samothes. “I can't believe you.”

“I have a system,” he says, shifting from foot to foot. Samot's bent over the desk, trying to make sense of his husband's 3000 unread emails. He pushed Samothes out of the way a few minutes before to marvel at the mess.

“A _system_ ,” Samot says, incredulous.

“All the unread ones are spam, and it's just easier not to delete them.”

Samot clicks on the third unread email from the top.

“This is from Primo.”

Samothes blushes, and as frustrated as he is with his mess of a husband Samot can't help but be charmed.

“You own your own company and you can't be bothered to get your email under control?”

Samothes just smiles, sheepish.

Samot sighs. “I'm hiring you a secretary.”

“No!” Samothes touches Samot's wrist. “You _know_ I like to handle things myself.”

Samot grins. Got him.

“Then why don't we make a deal,” he says. He pushes Samothes down into the office chair and sits in his lap. Samothes's blush deepens, and Samot revels in the way Samothes's pupils dilate, the way he can't stop staring at Samot's lips. “You figure out how to make Primo's emails redirect to a folder and delete all your unread emails in the next ten minutes,” he says, and leans down to kiss Samothes, his hair falling in a curtain around them. He lingers there, not just for Samothes but for himself, pulling on Samothes's bottom lip with his teeth in the way Samot knows he likes.

When he pulls away, Samothes's hands are spasming in the fabric of his shirt, on his ass, and his pupils are blown wide. Samothes tries to lean back in and Samot stops him with a smile and a finger on his lips.

“Like I said,” Samot says. “You clean this up in the next ten minutes, and I'll be waiting for you in the bedroom. Much longer than that and I might get,” Samot says, and pauses. Smiles wider. “Distracted.”

He pushes off Samothes with a hand and stands, then turns the chair to face the computer.

“I love you,” he says, and kisses Samothes on the top of the head. “Nine minutes left.”

Samot laughs as he hears the frantic clack of keys behind him, and makes his way down the hall.

 

Maybe he'll give him eleven minutes. Just this once.

 


	2. reminders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> orth is a baby. i think his dad might be alive in canon but who has time to scrub through the kingdom game, not THIS LADY. thanks for ideas from @AtoZircon on twitter :)

“I mean, it's a nice ship,” Orth says. “It's certainly a big ship. Everyone told me I did a very good job piloting, so,” he says, scuffing his foot in the dirt.

“I just,” Orth says. He lifts a hand to rub over his mouth, then drops it and fidgets with the buttons on his jacket.

“It feels strange-it.” Orth struggles for words. “It feels wrong. I'm going to look into it.”

He drops to sit cross-legged in front of the grave.

“I don't know what you'd say. Did you ever get that feeling, dad?” Orth laughs. “The thing is, I get that feeling a lot.”

“You were so proud of me. I want this to-I want this to be good.”

 

But Orth remembers a time when he was a kid-he saw a few kids going somewhere where the teachers couldn't see them, and he followed, on nothing else but the niggling feeling at the back of his neck.

When he rounded the corner, they had the smallest one pinned, and were asking quite unkindly for his creds.

Orth yelled something, hoping to stop them, and got a beating for his trouble. He limped home with a black eye and bloody nose, and his father took one look at him and asked him what happened.

And then he laughed and looked at Orth, proud.

“When you rely on people to run things those people have got to do what you just did. You've got a good head on your shoulders, you just have to trust it more.” And he'd ruffled Orth's hair and fixed him up, and then they'd watched Orth's favorite anime together, just the two of them.

 

Orth closes his eyes.

“Everything's probably fine. Everyone keeps telling me I'm doing a great job. But, uh. Maybe I'll take a look.”

He reaches out a hand to the stone.

“Thanks, dad. It was easier when you could tell me out loud that I know what I'm doing, you know, so I remember. It can be,” Orth says, and laughs, bitter. “It can be hard to remember.” He swallows. “But thanks.”


	3. moral support

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh, hadrian.

Hadrian had stared pensively into the fire the last three nights, and Alyosha is nothing if not a curious man, so once Hadrian is alone on watch he sits quietly next to him at the fire.

“Is everything alright?” Alyosha asks, and Hadrian jumps, hand going automatically to his sword.

He looks up and sees Alyosha and calms, shoulders hunching sheepishly.

He takes another moment, staring into the fire.

“Does Samothes ever ask of you something you are unwilling to give?”

Alyosha sits back and considers.

“Something I am pained to give, yes,” he says, thinking of the first time he left Arrell. “But not unwilling. Much is worth His love.”

Hadrian's hands shake.

“Can I tell you something in confidence?”

Alyosha furrows his brow. “Of course,” he says, barely dropping off the usual 'my son.'

“He asked me to destroy the ring-Hella's ring-while it was on her hand,” Hadrian says. “He wanted me to destroy it and maim her, forever.”

Alyosha takes a deep breath.

“I mean-you saw,” he says. “You saw.” Hadrian looks at Alyosha, tears in his eyes. “What's wrong with me?”

Alyosha strives to find something to say.

“Are you sure-it was Him?”

“Yes,” Hadrian says. “It was Him. Did I-did I fail Him?”

Alyosha takes a deep breath.

“No, no-you can't have,” he says, then, stronger, “No, you swore an oath to protect and guide this woman.” He gathers himself. “There are-many forces are at work. And in Samothes's absence, I try to follow His principles, and above all, He is warm. That ring is a sun; Hella is your friend and pupil. I do not believe you were wrong, Hadrian; I believe you did a hard, compassionate thing.”

Hadrian is openly weeping, now.

“Why won't He answer me? Why won't He talk to me in a way I understand? I've left so much behind for Him, and still.” He wipes at his eyes ineffectually.

Alyosha sighs.

“Oh, Hadrian,” he says, and takes Hadrian's hand. “It is not just you.” Hadrian leans into him.

“We must do our best, but I would counsel yourself to stay true to your beliefs. You are a good man, Hadrian.”

“Thank you,” he says, quiet, and breathes deep.

“I confess I cannot sleep,” Alyosha says. “I would be happy to take the watch.”

Hadrian stands.

“You're a good man, too, Alyosha. Thank you.”

And then Alyosha is alone and the soft sounds of the forest envelop him. He looks up at the moons and tries to tell the time. It is harder, now. He thinks about the ring on Hella's finger and misses the sweet, simple assurance of the sun.


	4. call off your ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He lied to you,” Throndir says. “He lied."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by some good aly/throndir tweets:  
> "there's something good & fucked up there where alyosha tries to like. apologize on arrell's behalf for the whole fantasmo Deal and it's bad"  
> who knows how vampires work!

“He killed my friend,” Throndir says, and he can feel the urge to let go, he can feel his new power pulsing in the back of his mind, and as he looks at Alyosha, so pale and horrified before him, he wants to hurt. He wants to hurt Arrell. He wants to hurt this man who loves Arrell and had no idea.

“I know,” Alyosha says, barely a whisper. “I didn't know.”

“But you still love him,” Throndir says. Alyosha closes his eyes. Admission.

Throndir lets go.

It's only a moment, but the rush of energy is intense. Throndir feels his cheeks flush with energy, with blood, and Alyosha staggers, throws out a hand.

“What did you-” he starts, then shakes his head. He straightens. “Fine. Kill me if you must. I knew Arrell had done-but not this,” he says, and brings a hand to his face. “Oh, Tutor,” he says, quiet, quiet, so quiet no one but the Ranger would hear.

Throndir breathes, deep.

“I'm not going to kill you,” he says, almost a growl. He steps closer and Alyosha flinches but does not move back.

Throndir looks at his lips. Lips Arrell kissed.

“Arrell's not here, so I don't need to kill you,” he says, and leans in.

Alyosha accepts the kiss but does not reciprocate it. When Throndir pulls back he looks confused.

“Arrell isn't here,” Throndir says again. “What has he ever done for you but lie to you and leave you? He didn't even tell you about Fantasmo. He didn't tell you about so much, and you still-”

Alyosha cuts him off with a kiss.

“Arrell isn't here,” he says. “We don't need to talk about him.”

And then Throndir is crowding Alyosha back into a wall and Alyosha pulls him up into a searing kiss, intense enough that Throndir can only just keep up while supressing the urge to suck all the energy out of Alyosha. He bites Alyosha's lip and Alyosha gasps.

“Bed,” Throndir says, voice rough, and Alyosha shakes his head.

“Here is fine,” he says, and spins to push Throndir against the wall, then drops to his knees.

The first warm breath on his cock through his loose cotton pants has Throndir throwing his head back. Alyosha pulls his pants down and licks up the bottom of his dick, taking as much as he can in his mouth.

Alyosha is pretty. What's prettier is the thought that Alyosha once did this for Arrell, and that he's sucking the dick of the man who will kill him. Throndir groans, low, and threads a hand through Alyosha's hair.

It doesn't take long. Alyosha sucks his dick with a single minded focus and ferocity that Throndir hadn't thought him capable of, and Throndir pulls his hair and imagines Arrell walking in on this, seeing them like this.

Throndir comes so fast he doesn't even have time to warn Alyosha. He swallows and leans his head on Throndir's thigh. He's shaking.

Throndir takes a moment to recover and pulls Alyosha up, holds him close. Kisses Alyosha, lets him bite his neck, and then reaches down and opens his robes, takes his dick in his hand.

“Aren't you angry?” Throndir whispers. He twists his hand and Alyosha shudders, groans.

“What would Arrell say, if he walked in right now?” Throndir says, keeping a slow pace. “What would he say if he saw me fucking you?”

Alyosha's pupils are blown. His mouth moves but he says nothing, bending to lean his head on Throndir's shoulder.

“Did he ever have you like this?” Throndir asks, and moves his hand faster, faster. Alyosha gasps and bucks his hips. “Fucking you against a wall while he pretended to be my friend a million miles away?”

Alyosha shudders and leans more of his weight into Throndir. He's close, his dick pulsing with every stroke.

“He _lied_ to you,” Throndir says. “He _lied_ ,” and Alyosha comes all over his hand.

It's easy, Throndir has learned, to take a little energy when someone comes. Just a little. A sip. He feels energy rush back into him. His limbs are less tired, his head less cloudy. He works Alyosha through the aftershocks.

Alyosha leans against him a few more moments, and stands once he can without shaking. He doesn't meet Throndir's eyes. He fetches a towel and carefully cleans off Throndir's hand, finger by finger. Throndir looks at him.

“I think it's time for you to be going,” Alyosha says, still not meeting his eyes.

Throndir nods and takes his bag.

“When I see him next,” Throndir says, “I'll kill him.”

“I know,” Alyosha says. His voice is small and bitter. “Some days, I am not sure how much I would blame you.”

 

Throndir walks out the door.

It shuts behind him with a slow, plaintive whine, and then he is gone, silent steps on cobblestones disappearing into the sounds of a city at night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think i need a shame account


	5. pretty picture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> echo just wants to shut grand up, for one whole minute. gig helps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://twitter.com/the_erlkonig/status/886037584195063809
> 
> i owe this fic and my life to this tweet thread, thanks gang, i want eight more versions of this on my desk by monday,

Grand is pattering on about something, and, look: Echo can see the man's uses, but he talks entirely too much about entirely too little.

Echo thinks they know some better uses for that mouth.

Gig is sitting there with the two of them, doing a much better job of pretending he's interested in hour two of whatever Grand's talking about while Echo cleans their sword. Even has wandered off to look at the local plant life.

Grand says something he read on a camping blog and that's it. Echo carefully sets down the sword, grabs Gig's collar, and pulls him into a kiss.

Gig makes a muffled sound into Echo's mouth and then kisses back, opening his mouth, all hot and wet and eager for them. Grand has gone silent, but Echo knows he's still there because the only sound is the clinking of a stylus, dropped to the ground. They pull Gig closer and kiss him thoroughly, grabbing his hand and putting it on their ass. Gig groans into their mouth, and they pull back to start kissing his neck.

“No streaming this,” Echo says, and Gig laughs.

“Of course not!”

“I'd have thought you'd be into that,” Echo says. They pull him closer, grind into him.

“I-ah,” Gig says, breathy. “I save streaming for the second date.”

Grand swallows, audibly. Echo glances over at him, and sees all the blood's drained from his face.

“I-I should go,” he says, shifting in his seat. “I'll uh, give you two some privacy.”

“What I think you're going to do,” Echo says, in-between kissing Gig's neck, “is sit right there, perfectly still, and watch.”

Grand stills immediately and swallows again. This time Echo is looking, and they can see his Adam's apple bob in his throat. They smile into Gig's neck.

Gig pulls them back up and into another searing kiss, opening his mouth. Echo hoists a leg up around his waist and Gig groans again, moving to kiss Echo's jawline.

Grand whines, and Echo turns just enough to look at him. He's breathing fast. Echo puts a hand in Gig's hair and smiles, just so.

“You're doing so well,” they say, and there are two moans. There's a flush high in Grand's cheeks and Gig stutters, kissing Echo behind their ear.

Oh, boys, Echo thinks. You're really making this easy for me.

“Do we make a pretty picture, Grand?” Echo says. Gig laughs breathlessly into their shoulder.

Grand licks his lips and moves his mouth but nothing comes out.

“You can answer.”

“Yes,” he says finally, eyes wide. His hands are shaking, gripping his thighs.

Echo looks him over.

“You can come touch,” they say, and Grand stands immediately, walking over on stiff legs. He pauses before them, Gig kissing Echo where their neck and shoulder meet.

Echo guides his hand to the bare skin of their stomach, their waist, where the crop top doesn't cover, and leans in to kiss him. Grand's mouth opens in a gasp and Echo bites his lower lip. He shudders, and then Gig leans in and starts taking off Grand's vest, Grand's neon flannel. His hand clenches at Echo's side, and then Gig reaches for the fly of Grand's pants.

“Not yet,” Echo says, and leans back into kiss Grand again. He looks dazed when Echo pulls back. When Gig pops up next to Echo he blinks at him like he'd forgotten Gig was there. Gig leans in too, kisses Grand with all the enthusiasm he showed Echo earlier, and Echo kisses Grand's neck, jaw, until Gig releases him, shaking.

“You're both so good,” Echo says, “so obedient.” And then they watch Gig and Grand look to them for what's next.

“First,” Echo says, “Grand, you're going to show Gig what you can do with that mouth.”

And Grand drops to his knees and nuzzles into Gig's crotch and Echo drops a hand into his hair and hopes Even takes a long, long time coming back.

Though, they think, they could probably make that work too.

 

Echo is good at this sort of thing, after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know who i am


	6. old songs now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> speculative hurt comfort samsam bullshit.

When Samothes first emerged from the sword, the room fell into chaos-four mages, a star and god, tumbling out of a blade. Sounds like an old joke, Samot thought, distantly.

Hadrian dropped to his knees and Samothes touched his head, laughing. Samot had missed that laugh. His memory could never quite replicate how warm it was.

And then he looked up and saw Samot.

“Hadrian,” he said, voice thick, “would you mind waiting outside for a few minutes?”

Hadrian looked up and looked between Samothes and Samot.

“Oh-oh, yes! Yes, my lord,” he said, and Samothes laughed again.

“I'll join you shortly.”

And then Hadrian was gone and Samot felt like he couldn't stand, shaking as he was.

“It worked,” he said, soft, as Samothes walked closer. “You're here.” His voice cracked on 'here' and Samothes gathered him up in his arms.

Samot breathed in, shaky, smelling the sharp scent of iron and the sweet scent of Samothes himself. He squeezed his eyes shut to try to stop tears from falling, and when that didn't work he buried his face in Samothes's shirt.

“I still believe I was right,” Samot said, choking on the words, “but not like that-never like that-I-”

“I know,” Samothes said, and Samot cried. He hadn't been touched in-many years. Not like this. It was almost too much.

“I missed you, I missed you,” Samot sobbed, and Samothes tightened his arms.

“I thought of you every day,” he said. “I saw you in that star, clear as day.” And he rocked Samot back and forth, gentle.

Samot quieted eventually and let himself be held.

Samothes sighed, after a time.

“I was split. I don't know the extent of my powers, outside the sword, or even how long I will last in this form.”

Samot pulled back and put a hand on Samothes's cheek.

“Your powers do not matter to me, husband,” he said, fierce. “We will figure the rest out.”

Samothes looked at him, sad and fond and nostalgic all at once, and leaned in to kiss Samot.

Samot met him halfway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> later, samot tells him what happened to maelgwyn, the whole sad tale.  
> "we failed our son," samothes says.  
> there is no easy answer to that. samot nods, exhausted, and leans into samothes's chest.  
> "he almost looked exactly like you. he was you," samot says, and samothes shushes him.  
> "you two have been my greatest joys and my greatest regrets," he says. "gods do not have much time for regrets, but i had time enough and was powerless enough to consider my deeds." he pauses. "i wish i had known then about the scarcity of second chances."  
> samot takes his hand. they do not sleep that night. they sit vigil for the son they failed. they watch the gauntlet they set out like an offering gleam as the moons rise and set, and they do not cry, because they do not feel they deserve to; they lie with their regrets like every mortal has to.


	7. hard times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> even gets the first major injury on their expedition. echo blames themself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know what even looks like. presumably he has a leg that can bleed i dont KNOW  
> OT4!!! OT4!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Echo couldn't breathe.

“Echo,” Even said. “Look at my face.”

There was a five inch gash in Even's leg, and Echo couldn't look away from how the blood was bubbling out.

“Echo,” Even said, and Echo finally looked up at him.

“There you go,” he said.

“Gig,” he said, quietly, to someone on his right, “I need you to get the bandages and the needle.”

“Can you sit down for me, Echo?”

Echo's throat was tight. They shook their head.

“Would you let Grand help you?” Even said, and Grand moved behind them, touching their elbow.

“Don't touch me,” Echo cried, and threw Grand's hand off of them. Distantly, they realized Grand was shaking, too.

“That's okay,” Even said. “Grand, can you help Gig?”

There was movement they couldn't see, to their left. But Even had told them to look at his face, so they clung to that.

“Echo, I'm okay,” Even said.

“But you're not,” Echo said, starting to cry. Shit.

“You can look at my leg now,” he said, and Echo did, even though they didn't really want to see.

Gig and Grand had stitched the wound, bandaged it tight. There wasn't any more blood.

“Oh,” Echo said, and started crying harder.

Gig and Grand were hovering around them, and Even gestured for them to come closer. He kissed Gig, then Grand, soft, and said, “Thank you. Can you give Echo and I a few minutes?”

Grand was still shaking, so Gig pulled him up and led him away, whispering.

“Echo,” Even said, and this time Echo dropped to their knees and laid down next to Even, curling up with their head on his shoulder.

“I'm sorry,” they sobbed, “it was my fault.”

“You took down four people,” Even said, soft. “You protected all of us.”

“Not _fast_ enough,” they said.

“I'll be okay,” Even said, running a hand through their hair. “We'll just take it slow for a few days. I heal quick.”

He kissed Echo's forehead. "A perk of the Mirage. Just because you're our bodyguard doesn't mean you're responsible every time we get hurt, okay?” he said.

“Okay,” Echo said, breathing out.

“Can I call Gig and Grand back?”

“Yeah,” Echo said. “I want to see them.”

Even waved them over and they walked back, cautious.

“I'm sorry, Grand,” Echo said, and Grand leaned down, kissed their cheek.

“It's okay,” he said. “I'm sorry, too.” 

Grand curled into Even, clutching him almost as tight as Echo. Gig laid down behind Echo, taking them into his arms.

“I haven't had a family in a while,” Echo said. “I hate-I hate seeing you get hurt.”

Grand reached over and took Echo's hand. Gig tightened his grip on them.

“I love you,” Even said, sleepy, and then everyone traded kisses and “goodnight”s and “I love yous” in the fading light of Quire.

Echo fell asleep with two pairs of arms around them, a hand in theirs, and the heavy, comfortable warmth of safety surrounding them.


	8. a letter, never sent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> arrell writes many letters and sends few.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a letter arrell wrote to alyosha but never sent...
> 
> -sarah luckydicekirby

Alyosha,

 

It may surprise you, because you complain often I think of nothing but my work, but there come days when I can think of nothing but you. The sun is gone and the dark makes it easy to doubt oneself, child. I'm sure you know this well, as much as you idolize your Samothes.

Do you understand now, how it is easier to live without things you have not loved?

You may indeed have learned that lesson, because I have not received a letter from you since that day on the hill. Did you know that every day since I have thought about what might have happened had I reached out and taken your hand? I am not a faithful scholar of my own theory.

I wish I had learned that lesson in particular back in those hazy days when I knew what was necessary but had not yet taken action. When you first covered my hand with yours and drew me into a kiss.

Do not make that face, Pupil. I could never regret you. Not truly. I think of your hands, I think of your smile, I think of your lips when I am weakest, hunted and alone.

But do you see? You give me something to come back to, a place to return. The heat and the dark is bigger than me, bigger than you, bigger than your gods. It consumes. I intend to be consumed so people like you, good people, can lead this world into something better. I cannot have a home to return to.

It is lonely, Alyosha. No one wants the help I offer, but they must take it-it is the only way. We have never faced anything this absolute. It is the only way.

I miss you, terribly. I can see you, reading this, raising an eyebrow. Of course I do. Of course I do. It is simply not an easy thing to admit, sober, in the light of day.

I miss the sun. Seeing it there, a constant-it reminded me of your foolish god. Of you, and your foolish hope.

It is better this way. The moons remind me of nothing but wolves and so I push onwards to my goal.

I still think of you, every night. 

 

Your Tutor, always.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the woman who cleans the rooms find nothing out of place. arrell is a fastidious guest. funny, though, she thinks, that there are ashes in the fireplace-last night was warm, and she hadn't seen smoke.


	9. welcome home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> samot missed his husband a lot today

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks imperialhare and the_erlkonig for the prompt, hopefully it's ok that i made it fucky

“Welcome home,” Samot says, laid out on the bed in nothing but the jewelry Samothes had forged him: bracelets, necklaces, his favorite circlet.

Samothes pauses in the doorway, blush rising.

“H-hello,” he says.

“I missed you,” Samot says, sitting up.

Samothes walks closer.

“I've only been gone since morning.”

“Am I not allowed to miss my husband?” Samot reaches out and pulls Samothes to him, starts biting at the sensitive points on his neck.

“Ah-you certainly are,” Samothes says, sitting on the bed and pulling Samot into his lap.

Samot goes happily and starts playing with the edges of Samothes's robe.

“You come home to me dressed?” Samot says into Samothes's ear.

“I didn't know what was waiting for me,” he says.

“Well,” Samot says, pushing Samothes backwards onto the bed, “I know you're a quick learner. Don't make the same mistake tomorrow.”

He strips Samothes of his robe and pulls off his pants until he's naked before Samot, cock full and flushed.

Samot hums in approval.

“Did you want to come in me? In my mouth?” He says it conversationally and watches Samothes squirm. “This is your welcome home, after all.”

“You're going to be the death of me,” he says, fondly, out of breath. “I-in you.”

“What was that?” Samot asks, biting down Samothes's chest. Samothes's hand clenches in his hair.

“Please,” he groans.

The bracelets clang when Samot sits back up. He grinds down into Samothes for good measure and they both moan, Samot not as unaffected as he pretends.

Samot sinks down on his first two fingers, groaning not at the feeling as much as the look on Samothes's face: pure wonder. The circlet slips and Samothes reaches up to replace it. Samot scissors his fingers and adds a third.

Samothes groans, watching.

“Would you like to say something?” Samot says, panting.

“Please,” he says. Samot leans forward and kisses him.

“So good for me,” he says, and then he sinks down on Samothes's cock.

Even after all this time, Samothes feels so good. Samot shudders around him and Samothes bites his lip.

Samot starts moving, agonizingly slow for the both of them.

“Samot,” Samothes says, holding tight to Samot's hips. Samot smiles at him and sinks down, fast. Samothes moans.

“Husband,” Samot says, panting, moving faster.

“I love you,” Samothes says, and comes.

Samot sinks down once, twice, three more times, and comes with a groan, blond hair coming out of the circlet and catching in the necklaces.

Samothes reaches up and smooths his hair back. Samot lets Samothes slip out of him and lies down on Samothes's chest.

Samothes cleans them off with a cloth and pulls Samot closer.

“Is today a day I should have remembered?” Samothes says, laughter in his voice.

“No,” Samot says, a touch petulant. “I simply missed my husband.”

Samothes leans down and kisses Samot.

“I missed you too,” he says, and starts telling Samot about his day. Samot leans on Samothes's chest and enjoys the rumble of his voice, the warmth of his body, and the hand carding through his hair, all telling him: I love you, my love, my love.

 


	10. time after time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "AU where Samot is the one with stuff set up to trigger when he dies so they kill him instead"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a weird one, hopefully y'all get somethin out of it

 

They come for him sooner than he expects.

 

They find him in the grand tent on the battlefield, the one he uses to plan with, to look his generals in the eyes, orc and halfing and man, and tell them thank you.

Now he is to be killed here.

Samot looks at his son, looks at the knife-turned sword. Looks at the hitch in his shoulders.

“I love you, Maelgywn,” he says, and wishes that no version of his son would have to go through the pain Samot is going to cause him. There is no response.

Samot was Nothing once. He will not go back.

For a moment there is Samot, and then there is a wolf, and then Maelgwyn is on the floor, throat ripped out.

The stone mage is covered in blood, hand half-raised to her mouth. Samot stands in all his finery and wipes his mouth.

Everyone in the room stares at him.

“I'm sorry,” he says, with a small smile. “I still have work to do.”

The mages begin weaving spells, taking out knives, and then Samot is a wolf again and they are dead. No one else in the room moves against him.

Aubrey stumbles forward.

“You-”

He puts a hand on her head.

“I can't die,” he says, rougher than he expected. She nods, absent, and he walks by the men, the statue-woman, Aubrey, and goes to his papers.

 

If Samot was dead, something had gone wrong.

Samothes had his inventions, but Samot was a wordsmith. Samot could change worlds with the right words in the right order. So he had thought-a plan. Samot built plans like Samothes built cities; wove them together until every eventuality had a contingency. But this time, his plan itself was the problem. 

He taps his pen on the desk, absently watches the ink pool like Maelgwyn's blood.

Not Samot. He couldn't die. He wouldn't die. This was wrong. He could fix it.

 

All it takes are a few key changes. Samot doesn't plan on dying. He doesn't need a failsafe. But Samothes-his paranoia lets Samot write in a grand tomb, activated in case of death. It is Samothes's; he only suggests its existence, not its abilities: to do more would be to show his hand, to make it inauthentic. Ideas are Samot's most powerful weapon, and now Samothes would think of this, all on his own.

And Maelgwyn-he had to be on Samot's side, this time. He had to be ready to kill his father.

Samot smiles again, small and bitter. He has a hard road ahead of him. Maelgywn loves his papa.

Small changes, suggestions, are most effective, so it takes hours.

When Samot finishes the history, the sun is rising, but he is not in the fields outside of Marielda. He is in his study in the house in the woods.

He puts the history away and walks down the hall, mechanical. Maelgwyn won't be sleeping for long, but he is now. And just past this door-

Samothes is awake, lounging in bed, watching the sun rise. He looks up when he sees Samot enter and smiles.

“Morning,” he says, voice a low rumble.

Samot remembers, remembers how his sleep worn voice felt, vibrating through his chest. His heart aches.

“Good morning,” Samot says, ignoring the way his heart hammers. He slips into bed and leans on Samothes's chest. Samothes pulls him close, and Samot sighs.

“What is it?”

“I love you,” Samot says, and he isn't supposed to sound this sad.

Samothes kisses him.

Years and years wasted, this way-every time, Samot resets to this morning, this happy golden time before things went wrong, before the fear of the Nothing encroaching on him again destroyed his first family. A family he didn't and doesn't deserve, Samot thinks, leaning back into Samothes.

These things take time, Samot tells himself. Tiny, subtle changes stick. What are a thousand years to a god?

But he could start later. This goes the same way every time-Samothes's hand on his cheek, Samothes telling him he's a fool.

It's a reward. It's a punishment. Samot simply wants to see Samothes again, see his son again. See Samol again. Someday, he will get it right. He just has to keep trying.

He kisses Samothes again, firm, then pulls back.

“I was thinking,” Samot says. “Would you make me a mask?”

“What sort of mask?” Samothes asks, smiling. Samot lays a hand on Samothes's chest and begins his work.

This will be the last time. He can feel it.

 


	11. stumble on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maelgywn feels the pressure of his role. Castille offers a friendly ear.

Maelgwyn looks pensive when Castille meets him. He’s usually not much for reflection.

“Everything okay?” she asks, sitting down.

She watches him watch the way her limbs bend, stiff.

“Do you like your new body?” he says, suddenly.

Castille pauses.

“That’s kind of-”

“No, I mean-” he says. He exhales, frustrated. “You got a chance to make yourself completely different.”

“I was going to die,” she says. “It wasn’t much of a choice.”

“Yes, but,” he says, fumbling for words. “Is it….nice? To be different than you were?”

Castille thinks.

“I like my face,” she says, slowly. “I think I used to have a sharper face.” Maelgwyn studies her, nods. “I like my hats,” she says. “I never used to wear hats.”

Castille pauses.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Maelgwyn touches the mask where it’s resting on the table and then draws his hand back.

“I can’t...do that,” he says, and hunches his shoulders in. “Change.” It’s a whisper.

“Hey,” Castille says, soft. “You don’t have to be anything here.” She touches his hand and he turns hers over, studies it, threads their fingers together.

“Yeah, I do,” he says. “I always do. For everyone.”

“Not for me,” she says.

He sighs like he’s going to argue but instead he brings her hand to his lips and kisses it.

“Thanks,” Malegywn says.

One more thing Castille likes about her new body: she can’t blush.

“Of course,” she says, soft, and they sit there together, hand in hand, and talk of simpler things: the azaleas blooming, the sweet wine, the moons, in their intertwining path in the sky.

It’s dark, their faces lit only by candles and the silver arc of the moons, so they need not speak of the Sun or the Son. That, like the mask shining gold on the table, can wait until tomorrow.


	12. night comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arrell is mortally wounded; Alyosha tries to reassure him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when will i stop playing myself

Arrell can’t stop shaking. Morbidly, he thinks he may never stop shaking.

“Alyosha,” he says, as Alyosha kneels next to him. “Alyosha. Alyosha.”

“I’m here, Tutor,” he says, and his face is paler than usual.

“Did you get hurt?” Arrell asks, sharp. He breaks into coughs and gasps for breath.

“Tutor, shhh,” Alyosha says, and pulls Arrell into his arms. Arrell starts to look down at himself and Alyosha stops him with a hand on his chin.

“Look at me, okay?” he says, a small tremor in his voice.

“Why?” Arrell says, and looks down. Alyosha sucks in a breath.

There’s a huge chunk torn out of his torso. He can see singed flesh, bone-Arrell lowers his hand to touch it, wondering, and Alyosha grabs his hand.

He’s shaking, too, Arrell notes, absent.

“I’m going to die,” Arrell says.

Alyosha is crying. He’s never been a pretty crier, but Arrell always thinks he’s pretty. Alyosha laughs, once, and Arrell wonders if he said that out loud.

Alyosha kisses him, desperate, and he kisses back. He pulls away, dizzy. Alyosha pulls Arrell’s head to his shoulder and rocks him back and forth.

The hole in his side is starting to hurt, burning at the edges. He leans heavily into Alyosha.

“The Church teaches that when we die, we go to live with Samothes in a city of His making,” Alyosha says. “I choose to believe that’s true.”

He rubs his hand down Arrell’s arm.

“Don’t be scared, my love.”

“All that’s waiting for me is Nothing,” Arrell says, scrunching his eyes shut against tears. “This is the last time I’ll ever see you.”

Alyosha’s arms tighten around him.

“I’ll see you in Samothes’s Greatest City,” he says, lips pressed to Arrell’s hair.

There’s something wet on his hand, and Arrell absently realizes it’s the pool of his blood forming around them. The bottom of Alyosha’s robes are soaked.

“You’ll have to get new robes,” he says, and Alyosha laughs again, hysterical.

“I love you,” he says.

Arrell can’t lift his head but he turns it, kisses Alyosha’s chest where the robe opens at his neck.

“I missed you terribly.”

“I’m here now,” Alyosha says, and he’s crying again.

“You were the best part of my life,” Arrell manages, and lets his head fall against Alyosha’s chest.

Alyosha is saying something but he can’t focus on the words. Alyosha takes his hand, and that is good and warm and familiar. Arrell closes his eyes. Alyosha has always smelled like oranges.

His side hurts, but he is safe and warm and smells oranges. Arrell listens to Alyosha’s heartbeat and relaxes for the first time in years.

Falling asleep has never been so easy.


	13. hungry like the wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "what about yesterday's New Kink, Gore......"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this gore-y enough? too gore-y? i have no idea. enjoy  
> don't @ me over the chapter title im dying

Samot sits on Samothes’s chest, tail twitching.

Samothes is perfectly still, except for his breathing. His eyes are dilated, with fear or arousal, Samot can’t tell. 

The waiting is part of the game.

He bares his teeth, snaps, and Samothes twitches. Samot lunges forward and rips out his throat, skin and veins and organs caught in his teeth.

And then Samothes is gasping, blood pooling on the bed, and Samot is a human again, kissing him ferociously. Samothes kisses back, his erection hard against Samot’s thigh, but he loses pace. His lips go slack and his eyes go cold. 

Samot takes his hand, turns it over, curious. It’s warm and flops at the wrist. Soon, he knows, Samothes’s body will stiffen and cool. But not yet. The wound drips blood, left over from the last beats of his heart. Samot trails a hand over the wound and wonders at the way Samothes’s blood feels against his fingers. His mouth is still covered in it. So is Samothes’s.

The papers were all set. Samot makes a few marks. He leaves the paper covered in red fingerprints, but then Samothes sits up, throat whole. Samot stalks over to him and kisses him, hard, shoving his tongue into Samothes’s mouth, making him taste his own blood. Samothes shudders.

“How many times has it been now?” he asks.

“Four,” Samot says, eyes fixed on his torso. He looks up at Samothes. “Okay for one more?”

Samothes’s breath catches.

“Yes,” he says, and Samot’s eyes soften. He kisses Samothes once, gentle, and wipes his blood from his lip. 

“Would you like to struggle, this time?” he asks, forehead pressed to Samothes’s.

“Y-yes,” Samothes says, and Samot says, “Don’t worry, husband-you will not be able to hurt me,” and grins, feral, before his teeth shift to fangs and his legs shorten and his face lengthens and then Samot is a wolf, head low, growling. 

Samothes stands and braces himself.

Samot circles, tongue lolling. 

Samothes makes an attempt to grab him and pin him but Samot is too fast; he slips under Samothes and bites a chunk out of the back of his neck.

His blood is salty and tangy and good. Samot swallows it down.

Samothes lunges and catches his paw; Samot writhes and bites his arm, down to the bone. 

Samothes swears and clutches his arm. He’s bleeding badly. Samot goes for his ankles and he’s too slow to stop him. He falls, bleeding from another bite. Samot walks on top of him and transforms back into a man.

He leans in close to Samothes’s ear.

“I am winning, husband,” he says. “Can you feel that you’re dying?”

Samothes grabs for him, limbs slow, and Samot gropes for the knife on the bedside table.

It’s covered in old blood-Samot always leaves the blood, when he reconfigures. He squirms in Samothes’s arms and drives the knife into his chest.

Samothes gasps and his arms go slack. Samot strokes his face and kisses him, swallowing his last breath. 

He kisses Samothes’s temple and then stands, walks over to the desk. A few more strokes, a few more bloody fingerprints, and Samothes is breathing again, lying on the bed, naked. 

Samot walks over and kisses him.

“I killed you five times,” he says. “And it did not matter what you did. I killed you every time.”

Samothes’s breath quickens.

“How?”

“Twice I tore out your throat, twice I stabbed you. Once I pulled out your heart with my claws.” Samothes gasps, throwing his head back. Samot bites his neck, just hard enough to leave a mark. The blood on his face is drying but some smears onto Samothes’s skin.

Samot takes them both in hand, Samothes’s erection rubbing deliciously against Samot’s own.

“How does it feel, husband,” he asks, “that I could kill you at any time?”

Samothes shudders and bucks his hips. 

“How does it feel to be helpless, in a wolf’s bed?”

Samot moves against Samothes, gasping. Samothes groans.

“You’re mine,” Samot growls, and Samothes comes with a moan.

Samot feels his dick pulsing and thrusts once, twice more and comes too, leaning forward to sink his teeth into Samothes’s shoulder. 

They fall against each other, and Samot stretches out on top of Samothes. Samothes’s hand plays in his hair.

“You’re mine, too,” Samothes says, fond.

Samot rubs his cheek against Samothes’s chest. Flakes of blood fall off his skin.

“You’ve tamed me as much as any man ever will.”

“This is tame?” Samothes asks, laughter in his voice. 

“Yes,” Samot says, flipping over to look Samothes in the eye. “Besides,” he says, baring his teeth, “you like me wild, don’t you, husband?”

“Yes,” Samothes says, breath caught in his throat. 

“Good,” Samot says, and when he smiles, his teeth are nothing like a man's.


	14. little wolf

Samol wakes to large, round eyes staring at him.

Samot is standing in the doorway, clutching a blanket to his chest. His eyes are more colorful than when he put Samot to bed, Samol notices. He might be a little taller. 

“Bad dream?” Samol asks, yawning. 

Thunder crashes and rattles the house. Samot jumps. 

“Are you scared of the thunder?” Samol asks. Samot shakes his head.

“It just woke me up,” he lies. Samol stands up and walks over to him, kneels down. 

“It’s okay to be scared of the thunder, even if it ain’t gonna hurt you. But did you have a bad dream, too?”

Samot presses up against Samol, leans up to whisper in his ear.

“I had a dream that the Nothing came back and ate you and me and the house and everybody,” he says, serious, somber. 

Samol is not in the habit of telling pleasant lies, and they would all return to Nothing eventually. Still. 

“We’re not getting eaten tonight,” Samol says, pulling back to look Samot in the eye.

He clutches the blanket closer. Funny, that was something Samothes knit him, long ago. He’d have to tell him Samot had taken to it. (Samothes didn’t approve of his taking in strays. Samol thought he’d like the boy if he gave him half a chance).

Samol stands and leans down to pick Samot up. Samot goes willingly, dragging the blanket with him. Samol settles them both in bed and pulls the covers up around Samot.

“Would you like to hear a story?” he asks, and Samot nods, face pressed into Samol’s shoulder.

“Long ago, before any of you kids were around, besides my sister Severia,” Samol says. “I was wandering my domain, as I am wont to do. And I came upon a man with a strange stringed instrument.” Samot’s eyes drift closed. Samol strokes his hair.

“I said, ‘What is the instrument you have there?’ And he said to me, ‘A guitar.’”

“Now, I had a good loaf of dark bread I had baked just that morning, and I took it from my pack and told the man, ‘If you teach me to play, I will give you this bread.’ The man smelled the bread and swallowed.”

Samot nestles closer.

“He said, ‘Take the guitar! I only want the bread.’ And I said, ‘Fool! You’d give your tool to me for a simple loaf of bread?’

He said, ‘Look closer, for I am starving,’ and I saw his gaunt face, his watery eyes. And I felt awful.”

“What did you do?” Samot asked, muffled by Samol’s shirt.

“I gave him the bread and said, ‘I am the fool, for denying a hungry man food.’ And I turned to walk away, but the man said, ‘Wait! I will teach you to play if you teach me to make bread, and then I will teach you to make your own guitar, as thanks.’

So I lived in that village for weeks, and he learned to make bread, rolls and loaves and biscuits, and I learned to play guitar.”

“Will you make me the bread?” Samot asks.

“Boy, did you learn nothing? I’ll teach you to make it,” Samol says. “That way you’ll never go hungry.” He strokes Samot’s hair again.

“Goodnight, little wolf.”

“Goodnight, papa,” Samot says, and falls asleep.

Samol is fairly sure his hair is longer now than it was when Samot first came in the room. He yawns and pulls Samot close. 

He’ll check in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> samot makes that same bread, years later, when he's feeling most alone. it turns out as well as ever but crumbles like ash in his mouth.


	15. spring's charioteer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ephrim gains a new follower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is very in-media-res. v nsfw. have fun everyone

“You killed him,” Hadrian says, soft.

Ephrim slaps him, hard enough to leave a mark. Hadrian whines and bucks his hips.

“All he did was hurt us,” he whispers. He’s distant for a moment and Hadrian waits, panting. Then there’s a hand on his cheek. Hadrian flinches but Ephrim is gentle. He leans down and kisses Hadrian’s forehead. Hadrian grabs at his wrist.

“I’ll only hurt you in the ways you ask for,” he says, and Hadrian shudders, head to toe.

He pries Hadrian’s hand off his wrist. 

“Where are you supposed to keep your hands?”

“Above my head,” Hadrian says.

“Then why aren’t they there?”

Ephrim reaches out suddenly and pins Hadrian’s hands above the bed in one of his own. With his other he touches Hadrian’s dick for the first time.

Hadrian whines, louder than before. He writhes under Ephrim. 

“I killed him, but who’s here now for you to worship?” Ephrim asks, breathless.

“You,” Hadrian whispers. 

“Who?”

“You,” Hadrian says, louder. 

“Then worship me,” Ephrim says, lying back on the bed, propped up on his elbows.

“Start with my feet,” he says.

Hadrian moves, cautious, unsure if he’s allowed to. But Ephrim has only followed the rules he’s set. He doesn’t play tricks. Hadrian kisses his feet. He kisses the sole, the calluses, the heel. Ephrim shudders. 

“The other.”

Hadrian moves, eyes down, to kiss his other foot. He flicks his eyes up at Ephrim and he gestures to Hadrian. Hadrian starts on his ankle, calf, knee. The only sounds in the room are Hadrian’s sloppy kisses and Ephrim’s rough breathing.

Ephrim puts a hand in Hadrian’s hair as he starts on his other leg.

“You’re doing so well,” Ephrim says. He pats Hadrian absentmindedly. “You serve so well. It’s a shame he barely got to see it.”

Hadrian shudders and kisses him sloppier, wetter. He makes it to Ephrim’s inner thigh and Ephrim stops him with the hand in his hair.

“Enough,” he says, shaky. “You’ve done so well,” he says, and his eyes on Hadrian feel like a blessing. 

“You can take it in your mouth now,” Ephrim says, soft, and Hadrian almost falls forward. He takes Ephrim’s dick in his mouth and the way Ephrim gasps is a holy thing.

Hadrian swallows as much as he can handle, more, until his throat is open and there are tears in his eyes.

“So good,” Ephrim says. Hadrian bobs his head. The hand in his hair feels so good. Ephrim’s dick in his mouth is warm and the skin is silky and the noises Ephrim makes when Hadrian moves his tongue just right are divine.

Ephrim bucks his hips and Hadrian chokes. Tears stream down his face. He thrusts again and Hadrian relaxes his throat, feels his dick pulse. One more time and Ephrim is spilling down his throat. Hadrian works him through his climax and then pulls back with a sob.

He lies on the bed and looks at Ephrim while he recovers. Then he opens his eyes and his gaze on Hadrian is as bright and focused as a candle flame. 

His hand is still in Hadrian’s hair.

“So good for me,” he says. “My sword, my little priest.”

Hadrian is so hard it almost hurts. 

“I’ll always listen,” Ephrim says, and Hadrian feels tears in his eyes. Ephrim wipes them away and kisses his cheekbones. 

“What would you ask of me?”

“Touch me,” Hadrian groans, desperate.

And then Ephrim is there. He’s pulled Hadrian into his lap and he strokes Hadrian’s dick, unrelenting.

“You and I will usher in the spring,” he whispers in Hadrian’s ear. “I will never waste you like he did.”

Hadrian groans and lets his head fall back to Ephrim’s shoulder.

“Please,” he says, and Ephrim moves his hand faster, twists around the shaft.

“You’re mine now,” he says in a growl. “My very own prince.”

Hadrian comes all over Ephrim’s hand, whining. He turns his face into Ephrim’s chest and Ephrim holds him there with his clean hand, making soothing noises.

Then Ephrim lays him back in the bed and cleans them both up with a towel. 

He cradles Hadrian close to him and says, “Let me guide you.”

Hadrian lays heavily on him. He thinks Ephrim is almost asleep when he says, “I am yours, my lord.”

Ephrim kisses him, lazy, slow.

“You’re mine,” he says, and falls asleep.

Hadrian feels safe, warm. He is soon to follow.


	16. like a cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tender & Signet take some time to decompress in the body of Belgard. (It doesn't make either of them feel better).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmmmms loudly at TM, u are starting to get me with the "everyone has a friend" stuff

It’s been a long day. 

Tender thinks about smoking and instead proposes, idly, Signet show her the ropes. So to speak.

In just a moment Signet is tied up in her aerial silks, but she moves her arm easily and grimaces.

“Would you-” and she gestures to the hanging ends.

“Can’t you tie yourself tighter?” Tender asks, a hand trailing over Signet’s thigh where her robes are falling open. Signet shivers.

“No, these were made for mobility. Belgard always had to tie me tighter when-” 

She trails off, blushing. Grimacing again. 

“Oh,” Tender says, very quietly, and ties Signet up.

The pastels are pretty against her skin, reddening from the pressure of her body weight. It only takes a thought and then Signet’s robes are dissolving back into the mesh. She shivers again and Tender pulls her down into a kiss by her neck. It’s biting and rough. Tender doesn’t have the patience for anything else. Signet seems to feel the same way, given the sudden ferocity with which she bites Tender’s lower lip.

Tender growls and goes for her neck, scraping her claws lightly down Signet’s sides.

It’s a quick thing to bite marks into Signet’s neck, and then Tender drops to her knees and licks up Signet’s cunt.

Signet angles herself back in the silks, with the little control she has left.

Tender feels her muscles clenching against her mouth where she sloppliy licks at her, and somewhere in the back of her mind, inside an open door, Signet stirs there too.

And then Tender is split: half sucking Signet’s clit, half staring down a younger, looser, Signet. 

Signet smiles at Tender in the movie theater and puts a hand down her pants. In the body of Belgard Tender gasps into Signet, rhythm shaken. Signet tries to press down into her and Tender leans back in, whispers, “Shh,” and then-

Signet presses close in the theater. Her hair smells good. Tender’s never seen her so lighthearted.

“Belgard talks to me, you know,” she says, one finger inside Tender. She crooks it and Tender groans. “She’s talking to her right now, too.”

Tender looks up and sees Signet’s brow furrow, sees her gasp slightly out of time with Tender’s tongue. Signet adds another finger and kisses at Tender’s jaw.

“It’s not an insult,” she says, laughing. Her thumb plays at Tender’s clit. “Once you’ve had a Divine in your mind-curling up against your consciousness like a cat-” She pauses, then smiles, looks at the way Tender’s tail is wrapping around her waist. “It’s complete and overwhelming and it changes you.”

She adds a third finger and Tender sobs. 

“Please.”

Signet leans in close.

“She makes me come thirty times in thirty ways without even touching me,” she says.

Tender leans her head on Signet’s shoulder and shudders.

In Belgard, Signet shudders too, feeling the way Tender’s mouth stutters. Signet is so  _ wet  _ and Tender laps at her, trying to maintain a rhythm as she circles her clit.

Signet holds her close in the theater.

“From what I hear in here, you almost were a Divine,” she says. “Maybe you could come close.”

Tender shudders and in Belgard, she scrapes her claws down Signet’s leg. Signet shudders and comes, hard. Signet bites her jaw in the theater and Tender is coming too, trying to keep licking at Signet’s clit even as she shakes. 

 

In the theater, Tender stands up, shaky, and closes the door. Signet laughs, climbing back through the screen into Belgard. 

“I’ll be here,” she calls, and then Tender is looking at an older, more tired Signet, hands and head hanging. 

Tender kisses her jaw, soft, and says, “She talks to you?”

Signet looks surprised for a moment, then schools her face into neutrality. 

“She’s my best friend,” she says, as if that explains how a dead Divine can speak to her.

Though, perhaps, Tender thinks, it does. 

She thinks about how happy and capable Signet looked, swinging in Belgard’s body. She thinks about how Signet said “she,” in the theater. As if it were its own excerpt, an abridgment of all the ways in which she loved Belgard.

She looks at this Signet and wonders what changed. She looks at this Signet, and, tied up in the aerial silks, hanging her head, the ship lights powering on one by one around them, she looks so pale as to be a corpse. A ghost.

Tender shivers, her ears going back. It’s been a long day.

She unties her friend. They leave Belgard to reanimate slowly, the engines whirring on in their wake.  


	17. thousands of thousands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> maelgywn reappears. ephrim has to slowly learn what to make of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this on a plane. swoosh.  
> this could be a longer, slower fic but this is what i've got-hope it works.

Maelgywn stumbles into their makeshift refugee camp about a month after Alyosha.

               Alyosha is the one to find him. Ephrim walks into one of the dining tents, late, and sees Alyosha feeding him porridge.

               Maelgywn slumps in the chair. He’s shirtless, bundled up in a coarse robe, and Ephrim can see no wound. Alyosha talks to him quietly but Maelgywn gives him no response. Alyosha’s hand shakes, just a little.

               “Alyosha,” Ephrim says, and he jumps. Porridge splatters onto the table. He presses a hand to his head.

               “Go to sleep, Alyosha,” Ephrim says, a hand on Alyosha’s shoulder. Maelgywn slowly looks at them, hazy. Alyosha worries at his lip, an uncommon sight, something Ephrim remembers from when they were children.

               “Go to sleep,” he says, softer, and Alyosha stands, unsteady.

               “I will see you tomorrow,” he promises, and leaves Ephrim with a press of his hand.

               Maelgywn looks just past Ephrim, blank.

               Ephrim picks up the spoon.

 

               Ephrim feeds him the porridge and Maelgywn swallows but does not speak. He follows when Ephrim stands and goes outside, sticking close on his heels. And he lies down obediently when Ephrim pulls the covers off a spare bed. He led Maelgywn to the infirmary tent, one of the few places with private rooms.

               Ephrim draws the covers over him and stares.

                He’d killed him. This boy, this traitor had hurt him. And he’d come here? He’d said nothing as he let Alyosha feed him with a shaking hand?

               For a brief, horrible moment Ephrim wanted to hit him. Then he saw how gaunt he looked, ribs visible, eyes gaping. He thought about the story he’d heard, how there was blame for everyone but not as much for the Traitor Prince as the church stories told. He thought about Alyosha-but. Later.

               If Alyosha could feed this man, Ephrim could tuck him into bed. Just like that, the rage subsides.

               Maelgywn stares, unblinking.

               “I’ll be back in the morning,” Ephrim says, and turns to leave.

               Maelgywn makes a noise-somewhere between a whine and a grunt, and either way: terrified.

               He licks his lips and moves his mouth but can’t muster words.

               Ephrim sighs.

               “I’ll stay,” he says, and pulls up a chair.

               He watches Maelgywn as he falls asleep.

               Sleeping, he looks as still and dead as he did on the floor of the forge. Ephrim dreams of lava and iron.

 

               “I remember you,” Maelgywn says, almost before Ephrim opens his eyes. Ephrim jumps.

               “Charioteer of spring,” he says, idle, and Ephrim does hit him this time, an open-palm slap across the face.

               “Don’t call me that,” he hisses.

               Maelgywn raises a hand to his cheek.

               “You’re the only other person in the world who’s killed him,” he says, and Ephrim wants to vomit.

               “It was so lonely,” he says, and Ephrim wants him to stop, he wants Maelgywn to be gone. “He was always there and it was so loud.” He looks at Ephrim. “I’m sorry for what we did to you. It was the worst parts of me, the worst parts of him, and we screamed and cried and fought for a thousand years.”

               Ephrim closes his eyes. He feels ill. He’s not ready to forgive. He puts his hand on Maelgywn’s forehead and says, “Go back to sleep. I’ll be here.”

               Maelgywn lies back down, closes his eyes, and sleeps. Ephrim pants. He leans back in the chair, hard, picks at his nail polish and thinks of nothing at all.

 

               Alyosha brings them food. He walks into the room holding himself too rigid, as if he barely could force himself to come.

               Ephrim eats the porridge. Alyosha looks down at Maelgywn.

               “How is he?”

               Ephrim swallows, with difficulty.

               “He spoke.”

               “Oh?” Alyosha sounds terrified.

               Ephrim takes his hand.

               “Go get some more rest,” he says, and Alyosha hesitates again, looking between Maelgywn and Ephrim.

               “I’ll be fine,” he says, and Alyosha leaves him, promising to bring dinner.

               Maelgywn wakes up soon after, blinking.

               “Why is he scared of me?” he asks, and then grimaces. “Oh,” he says, before Ephrim can get furious. “There are so many memories,” he says, “and I’m just one thing now.” He looks at his hands. “A human again.”

               “You need to apologize,” Ephrim manages.

               Maelgywn looks up at him, then back at his hands.

               “I will.”

               Ephrim tries to leave during the afternoon, and every time Maelgywn panics, starts grabbing for him. Eventually he chokes out, “I woke up alone,” and Ephrim gets the vivid image of Maelgywn bleeding out on the forge floor. He takes Maelgywn with him after that.

               There’s something like pity forming when he thinks about him. Ephrim has been alone. He has had to answer to Samothes. He has found it an impossible task, and that was only for 25 short years.

               Maelgywn has been alone with his father for thousands of thousands.

               And Ephrim can’t tell if it’s pity that has him smooth the hair out of Maelgywn’s face that night before he tucks him into bed or genuine affection, but either way the little gasp Maelgywn makes, the way his eyes close, make Ephrim’s stomach twist.

               “I remember holding you,” he says.

               Ephrim draws back.

               “Go to sleep,” he says, gruff, and Maelgywn does. Ephrim soon follows, folded into the chair.

                And he dreams of iron of lava of Samothes holding him pushing the arrow deeper and he’s dead Samothes won’t save him he’s used he’s dead and he slips in Maelgywn’s blood pooling on the floor-

               And Maelgywn shakes him awake, and Ephrim crumples into his arms. Maelgywn tenses and relaxes, bit by bit.

               “I killed him,” Ephrim sobs, and Maelgywn sighs.

               “So did I,” he says, shaky, and Ephrim shakes his head, buries his face in Maelgywn’s shoulder.

               “I killed _you,_ ” he says, and Maelgywn holds him tighter.

               “No,” he says, soft. “You saved me.”


	18. the whole cup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arrell is used to ghosts. He just doesn't care for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy birthday ronnie!!!

The ghost was more of a nuisance than anything.

Putting books he had been using back on shelves, pouring him tea before it had properly steeped, cleaning the shelves where the bug-catching spiders lived.

He was sure it was a ghost. He rented his home from a woman who was barely ever in Velas, and if she were, she certainly wouldn’t clean. And the tea. That wasn’t his magic or hers. He’d removed every single ward he could find and put up his own.

And then there were the smaller signs-a cool breeze, the sound of a sigh, as if from far away. It wasn’t unheard of. The university had had a few ghosts, all meddlesome in their own ways.

There was a bubbling, pouring sound from the kitchen and Arrell hissed.

“It needs more time to steep,” he spit, and the pouring sound stopped abruptly.

There was no meddling for three whole days, and Arrell was content to believe the ghost had left, offended.

 

Then he woke from a nightmare to a concerned, translucent face staring back at him, and Arrell screamed.

The ghost flickered and floated back, startled.

“I didn’t-”

Its voice was thin and wavering. Arrell took a deep breath.

“I assume you’re the one who keep putting my books back out of order,” he said, trying for disdainful and ending up at shaky.

“Oh-I just thought-”

“Presumptuous,” he scoffed.

“You just look so tired,” the ghost said, voice small. “All the time. I wanted to help.”

Arrell was taken aback a moment.

“I believe I should thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” the ghost said. It floated closer. Arrell made out stringy blond hair, a thin face. A stab wound, in its torso. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” He raised an eyebrow. “And how long have you been here? What are your intentions?”

“I’ve been here...a while,” the ghost said. It looked at Arrell. “I’ve occupied every corner of this house. I can’t leave.”

“Why?” Arrell asked, and the ghost faded away, the answer coming as a disembodied whisper.

“This is where I was killed.”

The ghost stayed. Arrell didn’t see it manifest again, just caught cool breezes and drank under-steeped tea.

“If you’re going to live here, leave my tea alone,” Arrell muttered, drinking what mostly amounted to hot water.

The ensuing breeze was almost sheepish.

 

Otherwise, though, Arrell’s work continued. He was onto something-there were notes about a cataclysm coming, all throughout the old texts.

It occurs to him one day to ask.

“When did you die?”

The ghost was quiet. Arrell hadn’t heard it speak for weeks.

Then, “I can’t remember. A long time ago.”

“Do you know anything about-the-the heat and the dark?” Arrell asked, struggling to translate on the fly.

“No,” it said, after a moment.

Arrell sighed and turned back to his books, stared at the pages without reading them.

A moment passed. Arrell started to idly wonder. How did it-he-how did he die? What was his life like? Who killed him?

“What’s your name?” he asked, finally.

“Alyosha,” he whispered.

“Alyosha,” Arrell repeated, turns back to his books. “I might be able to trace that-figure out when you lived-”

The room shuddered, shaking everything on the shelves, on his desk.

Arrell jumped and grabbed his wine glass.

Then the ghost manifested in front of him, face serious, mouth set.

“I would like that very much.”

 

Arrell added it to his research: the-heat-and-the-dark, one big concept he doesn’t have a clean grasp of, and Alyosha’s name.

Alyosha manifested more often, usually simply sitting and watching, eyes wide. Arrell started to narrate what he did out loud, and one day Alyosha spoke, exclaimed, “There’s so much I don’t remember.”

Arrell looked back at him over the tops of his reading glasses.

“I suppose that makes you my pupil.”

Alyosha smiled, bright, and Arrell was struck with how young he is. For a moment he was unbearably sad, thinking about this young man bleeding out on the floor of his home.

“Who would have killed you?” he asked, absent, and Alyosha froze. He faded out before Arrell can think to apologize.

 

It’s a busy few weeks-Arrell made a breakthrough on his research and sent out inquiries to the church and the Archives, asking for pre-erasure records. His search for Alyosha’s name slipped through the cracks, though he still narrates his research out loud.

 

There was no sign of Alyosha, and Arrell felt it keenly. He even, foolishly, put a kettle on the fire.

His tea steeped far too long. Arrell drank it anyway. It was bitter.

 

He stumbled on it, really-a paper analyzing the role of the chruch through the history of Velas. They referenced a census, and it was outside of Arrell’s time frame, but he was tracking down a specific book that had been passed from exarch to exarch about a hundred years ago.

He tracked down the records, flipped through. His eye caught on a name.

One priest listed: Alyosha, no last name. 31. Residing in Velas.

Arrell couldn’t be _sure_ , but his throat caught. This was him. This had to be him. This could-he would talk again. It was amazing how content with solitude Arrell had been until he had seen just a hint of what it could be like to live with someone else. To live with something else, even. He’d barely seen Alyosha outside of his study, but there was a prescence he’d felt all throughout the apartment. Its absence was a keen ache gnawing at Arrell’s stomach.

He borrowed the book and rushed home.

“Alyosha,” he said, throwing the door open. “I think-”

And then there was a knife at his throat.

The man was dressed in black robes and Arrell realized, stomach dropping, he didn’t have his staff. He was going to die here, bleeding out, just like Alyosha. For a wild moment Arrell hoped he’d join him, living in this house. He’d thought about how lonely it was without Alyosha, but now, staring down a knife, was the first time he’d thought about how lonely it must have been for Alyosha.

“You lived a hundred years ago,” Arrell choked out, as the man said, “You’re looking to close,” and just before the knife came down, there was a shudder that went through the house.

This time it was so strong it knocked Arrell and the man down. The knife slid across his throat as they fell, drawing a thin line of blood. Arrell heard his staff clatter down next to his desk and he dove for it.

“Don’t touch him,” something howled, and Arrell slowly realized it was Alyosha. He faded in, furious but also healthier looking than Arrell had ever seen him. His hair blew out around his face in a halo and the whole room shook again.

“Alyosha,” Arrell yelled, holding on to the desk. “Peace!”

And then everything stopped and Arrell stood and tapped his staff once, freezing the man in place on the floor. His eyes moved wildly and Arrell hit him on the side of his head with his staff. He passed out, and Arrell leaned on his staff, panting.

“Alyosha,” he said, turning to Alyosha, still floating. His hair started to fall into place, looking less limp. His face had filled out.

“I’m remembering myself,” he said. He smiled, and, oh, his smile. Arrell would do most anything for that smile.

“You were a priest,” he said, voice rough. “Of Samothes.”

His long white robe changed, slowly, embroidery filling in on the sleeves. Arrell watched, captivated.

“You saved me.”

Alyosha was quiet.

“I couldn’t let them kill my tutor,” he said, finally, and Arrell felt such a rush of relief he surprised himself.

“Of course not,” he said, breathing deep and standing straighter. “Now that I have more information, the search should go better-would you like to watch?”

Alyosha smiled.

“I would like nothing more, Tutor.”

 

Arrell put on the kettle. Alyosha couldn’t help himself-the tea was watery and distasteful.

Arrell drank the whole cup.


	19. nothing, probably

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ephrim is upset. Throndir has trouble dealing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy birthday julie!!!

Ephrim comes to him in the middle of the night.

 

Throndir is sleeping alone, for once-he usually slept with Red Jack in the big tent behind the bar. 

He wakes up from the smell. Ephrim is shaking. The waves of rage and fear and guilt coming off him are heady. Throndir’s head swims, and then he can smell Ephrim’s tears.

“I didn’t know who to-I killed him, Throndir, I killed him,” he says, stumbling in. Throndir gets to his feet, unsteady, and grabs Ephrim’s arms. 

“Shh,” he says, and Ephrim shakes his head, over and over.

“I killed him, I killed him,” he moans.

“Who?” Throndir asks, maneuvering him to the bed and making him sit down. Throndir sits down next to him, dizzy.

“Samothes,” he sobs, and Kendrali wails, starts muttering in Throndir’s head. The chatter and the emotion are both too much, and Throndir holds his head.

“Sorry,” he says, quiet, and starts drinking Ephrim’s emotions. He feels the blood rush to his cheeks. It's better than ten hours of sleep.

His head clears as the intensity fades, and Ephrim sways.

“What?” he asks, vague, and drops his head to Throndir’s shoulder. He raises his hand, drops it. “What?” he says again.

He took too much. Shit.

He takes Ephrim’s hand, holds it. Then he helps him lie down.

“Throndir?” he asks, face still wet.

“You got upset and came here. Don’t you remember?” Throndir keeps his voice calm but his heart’s thudding. He wipes Ephrim’s face.

“Okay,” Ephrim says, already drifting off.

Throndir watches him until he’s asleep, sighs. Kendrali is quieter now that Throndir feels better, but his heart thuds, guilty.

He thinks about going to slip in bed beside Red Jack for one, lonely moment but then he takes a deep breath. He’s not leaving Ephrim.

He pulls up the covers and slides in. Ephrim groans at the cold air and then snuggles close to Throndir.

He sighs. 

“Goodnight, Ephrim,” he says, and falls asleep.

 

The next morning Throndir wakes first and waits for Ephrim to rise.

He wakes up slowly, blinks.

“Why am I-did we-?”

“No,” Throndir says. “You were upset.” He keeps his voice even.

“Oh,” Ephrim says, vague in a way that reminds Throndir of last night. “I don’t-remember much.”

“That’s okay,” Throndir says, and he could tell him, here. But he thinks of Hadrian. He thinks of Hella. And he hesitates.

“Wanna get some breakfast, buddy?”

Ephrim nods, grimaces at ‘buddy.’ “Friend is fine, thank you,” he says, and Throndir grins, tries not to act strange.

“You look better,” Ephrim says, walking with him to the tent that has become their mess hall. “Yesterday I thought you looked pale.”

“Oh,” Throndir says. He laughs, a little hollow. 

Ephrim gives him a look but Throndir keeps walking. “It was probably nothing.”


	20. by force

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hadrian has stopped sleeping. hella is volunteered to find out why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy birthday caitlin!!!

Hadrian stops sleeping.

 

Adaire and Throndir notice at the same time, Adaire tells her later, sipping tea while Hella goes through her forms.

“Yeah, I think he’s sleeping at least an hour a night. Maybe even two or three, judging by how well he’s able to function,” Adaire says, swirling her tea. Hella stops and wipes her forehead.

“I wonder what’s up.”

“Haven’t you heard him whimpering?” Adaire says.

“No?”

Adaire levels her with a look. “And I’ve been letting you take watch.”

Hella turns red and starts running through her forms again.

“Regardless,” Adaire says, and Hella can just hear the eyeroll. “You might want to talk to him.”

“Me?”

“Well, Throndir would, but you know how Hadrian is with,” she says, trailing off. Hella glances over and she’s waving a hand in the air. 

“Feelings?”

“Yeah,” Adaire says, scoffing. “And he’s scared of me.”

Hella glances over at Adaire again, the way she’s glaring daggers at her teacup. She grins.

“What sane man wouldn’t be?” She just catches Adaire smiling out of the corner of her eye.

“Sure,” Hella says. “I’ll talk to him.”

 

Adaire drags Throndir off into the woods that night, asking him to help her look for a specific herb. He goes happily but a little confused, asking, “Adaire, that herb doesn’t grow here, I don’t think?”

Hadrian is sitting by the fire, blearily staring into the flames. Hella sits next to him, leans back.

“I hear you haven’t been sleeping,” she says, and he jumps.

“Hella.”

“Hadrian.”

He looks down. “Okay, yeah, I haven’t been. So?”

“We need you alert,” she says. Softer: “And you’re my friend.”

Hadrian sighs.

“I keep dreaming about...Samot,” he says, finally. 

“Okay,” Hella says. “What about him?”

Hadrian looks at her.

“He wants me,” he says, and there’s no innuendo in it, just terror. Hella takes a deep breath.

“You know I don’t really get all this god stuff,” she says, and Hadrian huffs, hunches over.

“Tell me about it,” he mutters.

“But,” Hella says. “It’s your choice, right? They don’t just take people.” Adelaide laughs in her head, just on the edge of hysterical. She grips her cup, white knuckled.

“Yeah, I just…” Hadrian looks up her, eyes red. “He’s in my  _ head,  _ Hella.”

Hella laughs this time, strained.

“Tell me about it,” she echoes.

“What?”

“No-never mind,” she says, sighing, and scoots closer. She lays a hand on his shoulder. “But he can come to you in dreams all he wants; he’s not gonna take you by force.”

Hadrian turns to her, sudden, and grabs her hand.

“Don’t let me go to him,” he says, voice shaking. “I don’t want that. If he-if he takes me, you kill me.”

“Hadrian.”

“Please,” he says, eyes wild.

“But if you go to him-”

“I would never abandon my Lord,” he says, sounding like he’s trying to convince himself.

“I can’t promise that,” Hella says, soft.

Hadrian lowers his head to his arm. She feels him shaking.

“Please.”

“I won’t let you go in the first place,” she says. “If that’s what you want.”

He exhales, sharp. 

“Okay,” he says, finally.

Hadrian sits there a moment more, holding her hand, then lets go and stands up, stiff. 

“Thank you,” he says, and turns to leave. Hella sees the swish of his cloak as he turns.

“Nice cloak,” she says. Joking. 

Hadrian stiffens up even more.

“Thank you,” he says, wooden. “It’s warm.”

It’s not very cold out, but Hella can still see Hadrian shaking, shrouded in the bright, white cloak.


	21. always good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alyosha wishes arrell even pretended to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from twitter :3

Alyosha sighed and took his hand off Arrell's neck.

  
He /missed/ him, was all. He'd come home from an extended mission last night, and while they'd had a lovely dinner, today Arrell was practically ignoring him, no matter what he tried.

Apparently, he looked sad enough that Arrell started paying attention.

  
Funny, Alyosha thought, as Arrell looked up at him, sharp.

  
"What's wrong?" he said, as if Alyosha hadn't been trying to get his attention for half an hour.

"I just wish you cared about me as much as your research," Alyosha said, suddenly choked up. He hadn't really meant to say that, but it was out now, and Arrell's mouth opened, once, twice. Alyosha swallowed, trying not to cry.

  
"Why-that's not true," Arrell said, standing.

Alyosha just looked at him, eyes red and stinging, mouth a thin line.

  
"Alyosha," Arrell said, careful, "that's not true," and he pushed his notes aside, haphazard, pulled Alyosha to him.

  
Alyosha went, just a little reluctant, and then Arrell kissed him, deep, possessive.

It was good. It was always good, no matter how mad Alyosha was or how distant Arrell had been. And now Arrell was here-fingers digging into Alyosha's hips, backing him back up against the desk, kissing him like he was going to disappear.

Alyosha closed his eyes and let himself enjoy it, wondered how long before Arrell would judge him appeased and go back to his notes. But then Arrell started kissing his neck, sucking and biting and leaving little marks, and Alyosha sighed, breathy.

"You're important to me," Arrell said, choked. "I-"

  
He stopped talking, choosing to kiss Alyosha's neck instead. Alyosha grabbed at his robes, threw his head back.

  
"Tutor," he sighed, and Arrell reached for Alyosha's robes, took him in hand and started to stroke him.

"Tutor," Alyosha moaned, and Arrell growled, bit at Alyosha's neck. He kissed Alyosha again, mouths open, biting at his bottom lip. Then he pushed Alyosha's robes off his shoulders and pushed him down onto the desk. Alyosha went. The wood was cold under his arms.

Arrell said a few mumbled words and then pushed inside Alyosha with slick fingers, one, then, two, then three, in quick succession.

  
They'd been doing this for so long. Arrell knew exactly where to press. Alyosha panted, keened, begged, "Tutor, Tutor, please, I need you."

He could feel Arrell shudder, and then he kissed the back of Alyosha's neck. "All right," he said, and started to press himself into Alyosha.

  
Alyosha sobbed, pushed back into him, and Arrell gripped his hips tight, pressed in all the way. 

  
"Alyosha," he said, rough.

This angle was new and good-he was so /deep/, and Alyosha hung his head, panted.   
"Please," he said. 

  
Arrell started slow, cautious, but as Alyosha groaned, pleaded, he picked up the pace, until he was thrusting wildly. Alyosha almost couldn't stand it-he was so close-

And then Arrell managed to reach around and touch Alyosha, stroke him, just once, and Alyosha came with a choked moan. Arrell came a minute later and pulled out of Alyosha, leaned heavy on the desk beside him.

  
Alyosha stayed bent over on the desk, panting, hair in his face.

Then there was a hand in his hair, stroking it back out of his face.

  
"Come here," Arrell said, and Arrell cleaned him up, picked him up, and Alyosha went, silent. Arrell was always so warm. He wished he would hold Alyosha more often.

He brought him to the bed and braided his hair for him, quick, efficient. Alyosha looked up at him, eyes closing, unwilling to go to sleep.

  
"You can sleep," Arrell said, humor in his voice.

  
"I want to remember this."

  
Arrell's face dropped. 

  
"Alyosha-I care about you."

Alyosha looked up at him, decided that was enough for right now. For right now.

  
"Stay?"

  
Arrell pulled him closer, kissed his forehead.

  
"Alright," he said, and Alyosha fell asleep, quick, easy.

As he drifted off, he thought he heard Arrell saying something-"My research is for-you," or for "who." Something similar. Alyosha fell asleep thinking about what that could mean.

  
When he woke he didn't remember hearing anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @capricioustube


End file.
